


Disorder

by isharaine



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Fluff, One Shot, Ulquiorra has OCD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:17:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6466432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isharaine/pseuds/isharaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orihime's classmate Ulquiorra hates her, as far as she knows. She is enjoying their little battles too much, but for some reason, he is there when she really needs him. </p><p>UlqXHime AU </p><p>Happy birthday, 29thSpirit! <3 Thanks to lilarin for the title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [29thspirit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/29thspirit/gifts).



I.

 

She sits up in the dark room, clutching the blankets to her chest. The chill of the air conditioning sends goosebumps blossoming across her bare skin, but that does not compare to the pounding of her head and the blind panic that she is drowning in.  Everything that happened last night is a blank, and Orihime Inoue is terrified.

Where is she? There is a strange scent in the air and on her skin, a soreness in her limbs whenever she moves. A glance at the bedside table reveals her phone and purse, carefully arranged just so the edges lie parallel with the table. The clock radio says it is 3:00 PM.

Her hair is slightly damp. It might be from sweat, or it might be from a shower. The lack of memory is feeding the fear. “Think, Orihime,” she whispers aloud, comforted by the sound of her own voice. This, at least is familiar. When one is an orphan, the most common conversations are with yourself. She swings her knees over the side of the bed, glad to see that her underwear is still on.

There is a bathroom. She stumbles towards it, wincing as the bright light blinds her temporarily. When her vision returns, all she can do is stare. The bathroom is luxurious, yes, but the most striking feature is the stark whiteness of it. Even the taps are clear. There is no colour here, save for her own. She catches her reflection in the spotless mirror, and is surprised to see a neat braid going down her shoulder, her blue hairpins keeping her bangs up.

A flash of memory- long, slender, black-tipped fingers holding her haphazardly knotted hair, sending the pins skittering across the floor as she bends over the porcelain throne to empty her stomach.

Orihime finds a toothbrush behind the mirror (white, of course, and still in its packaging) and scrubs at her teeth until the foam is pink and the sour taste is gone. She inspects herself in the mirror slowly, because her head is still spinning. All her makeup has been scrubbed off, so thoroughly she could have done it herself. Maybe she did. She pulls off the hairpins, placing them on the counter. A sense of urgency makes her step into the shower until her fingers wrinkle. She finds a bump on the top of her head, a little bit sore but not too large. The mystery deepens.

By the time she is done, the panic has been swallowed up by a cool, blessed numbness. She flicks on the light in the bedroom to find that it is also the same, unbroken white: white beddings, white furniture, white walls. Even the drapes that block out the light are white. She checks her phone again. The battery is dead. Wonderful. Is she in some serial killer’s house? Yesterday’s clothes are folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Her green dress, a thrift-shop purchase, and her gold sandals, borrowed from her roommate Tatsuki. She quickly dresses, afraid that whoever owns this house might burst in here.

There had been a party, she remembered now, at one of the fraternity houses off-campus, to celebrate the end of the semester. She had gone with Tatsuki and Ichigo and Uryuu, but had gotten separated from them in the madness. And then… blankness. This was exactly what the media warned girls about, especially college girls. Greek letters are faintly stamped on her wrist. She brings it up to her face, surprised it survived the scrubbing. Alpha… Rho… Chi.

Yes, that was the fraternity who had thrown the party. She really should have said no, being an art major. That was so far from her scene, but Tatsuki and Ichigo, who were both pre-law, said they needed to investigate something. Even the med student Uryuu had come along, since the Alpha Rho Chi parties were legendary.

She looks around the room a bit more, trying to find any traces of the occupant. The closet is full of identical white shirts, and black jeans. There are no photos, only books about war, and strategy, and logic. The book jackets are white, as if they had been selected for colour instead of topic.

Orihime makes the bed, more out of habit, than anything else. “Silly Orihime, you might have been kidnapped, but you are making the bed,” she laughs aloud, needing to hear a voice, even her own, to fight off the panic. She does not dare think the r-word, does not even want to consider what might have happened that is hiding in the back of her memory hole. 

Packing her phone into the purse, she takes a deep breath, steeling herself, and then opens the door. The room she is in opens to a long hallway, also white. Is she in some sort of hospital? But there is no sign of anyone else. Maybe she is in an alien ship, she thinks hysterically. All this white is offending her artist sensibilities, making her fingers itch for her crayons, her oils, anything to cover this blinding blankness.

She tiptoes to the hallway, bag raised at the ready to bash any henchmen that might jump out. _That’s what heroines do_ , she thinks, boosting her confidence.

Everything in this house is white, white, white. She makes it to what looks like a living room, with a three-story picture window that flows into a skylight and a view of the forest that makes her breath hitch. It is the first colour she has seen since she awakened, and there is something comforting about seeing the trees up close. Still, it worries her. She has no idea where she is.

A movement behind her catches her attention, and she whirls around. Then she stares. A boy - no, a young man, really, lies curled up in a ball on the couch, sleeping under a snowy blanket. His dark hair is a wild mess that movie stars only wish they had, and the sunlight falls across his arm, thrown carelessly over his head. She can hear his deep, even breaths, and for some reason, her stomach is full of butterflies.

She tiptoes closer to get a better look at his face. His shirt is pulled up, exposing a tight torso and the bottom of a tattoo on his pectoral muscle. His arms, unfortunately, obscure his face. “A little more,” she pleads, as if his limbs could hear her and move away for her benefit. She can see the corner of a heavy eyebrow, the edge of a scowl, and a jaw that is clenched. Her heart races. Can it be… Ulquiorra Cifer?

But… he hates her. Her mind goes back to the first day of the first semester, when she accidentally bumped into him at the hallway. He wore a mask, the kind that people use when they have colds, but his cold green eyes burned into her; she had painted them into her art projects for the next three months, unable to forget.

Since then, in the two years that passed, every time they’d had a class together, he has been downright mean to her. In fact, he refuses to call her anything but “woman,” or “that woman,” or “trash.” She and Tatsuki speculate that he may have OCD or some sort of illness, since he is always gloved and masked. No, it can’t be… That guy does not have a kind bone in his body. Still… She has never really seen the bottom half of his face. His contemptuous eyes have always been more than enough to send her scurrying away.

He shifts restlessly, and her hands fly to cover her mouth. It IS Ulquiorra Cifer. Is this his house, then?

She crouches down next to him, studying his sleeping features. Minus his typical blank hostility, he actually isn’t that bad looking. Before she realizes it, she is pulling her pencil and notebook out of her purse, and drawing him. Her pencil moves quickly, capturing the curl of his ridiculously long eyelashes, the cast of his jaw and the fullness of his lips. He is pale, but the sun colours his skin to gold. She has never really looked at him before now; he is breathtaking.

No, no. She shakes her head to clear it. He is a jerk. A jerk who hates her.

But… she leans down, until she can feel his breath on her lips. What would it be like to kiss him? Temptation pulls her closer, closer. His scent is clean and woodsy, and lying on the pillows has caused indentations on his cheek. He looks so innocent. At the last second, she pulls away.

His eyes open and she is drowning in them. “Woman, what are you doing?”

Caught off-guard, she lurches backward, landing hard on her backside. It is difficult to be graceful in a party dress. “Ulquiorra, I… I wasn’t sure you were breathing,” she improvises, mentally patting herself on the back for the lie.

He sits up, his hair falling perfectly around his face. No bedhead for Ulquiorra Cifer. It isn’t fair, she thinks. Her eyes meet his again and she can see his annoyance. “Why would I not be breathing?” he mutters, pulling the hem of his shirt down to cover his pale belly. “Will you please leave my house now? You can catch a bus from the corner.” He rises easily to his feet, and automatically folds his blanket. He is barefooted, and it is odd but she is mesmerised by his toes.

“How did I get here?” She asks, bracing herself on the coffee table to get to her feet. It tips over, sending her stumbling again. With a sigh, he drops the blanket and catches her under the arms.

“You would lose your head if it wasn’t attached to you,” he tells her, releasing her once she is standing. Then, he grabs some hand sanitizer and wipes his hands. She would be offended, if she didn’t notice that there was a bottle of disinfectant within reach from every corner of this room. “And don’t play dumb, Orihime. You snuck into my car at the party.” He points to a coat rack where her trench coat is hanging.

“What?” She blinks at him, confused.

“If you really like me that much, I have to tell you now, I don’t like you.” His harsh words have her hackles rising. “I have to admit, it isn’t every day that a woman sneaks into the car, completely inebriated, and passes out in the back seat. Did you wait until I had to leave the door unlocked to pay the parking ticket? I was tempted to leave you in there overnight, but the temperatures dropped below freezing last night and your death would not be worth going to jail. Please leave now, so I can disinfect the house of your disease-ridden presence.”

To her horror, tears of fury and humiliation rise to her eyes. “Excuse me, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t like you at all, you conceited ass!” With the shreds of her dignity, she hobbles to the doorway, grabbing her coat. If she were cool like Tatsuki, she would have an excellent parting line to hurl at him, to leave him with feelings of guilt or remorse. If she were strong like Ichigo, she could punch him and relieve her frustration.

She stomps out the gate, slamming the door behind her without a backward glance. She does not see him watching her from the front window.  On the bus ride home, she realizes she left her blue hairpins in his bathroom. With a groan, she buries her face in her hands. There is no way she will ever get them back, not if she has to deal with him. In fact, he will probably throw the pins away.  With a growl of frustration, she mentally kicks herself. He looked so innocent in his sleep. Too bad he is heartless.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, 29thSpirit!

 II. 

When she arrives at her dorm room, Tatsuki is waiting. “Thank God, Orihime, where have you been?” the dark-haired girl asks, flying into her arms to hug her. “We were so worried! Ichigo, that idiot, he said he put you in the car but when Uryuu caught up with us, you weren’t there. We were just about to call the police!”

“What?” Orihime notes the dark circles around her friend’s eyes. Guilt immediately swamps her for giving her trouble. “I’m so sorry!” As all the tension overwhelms her, she bursts into tears. Tatsuki is terrified by her reaction.

“Orihime… Do we need to go to the police?” she asks gently, her eyes dark with worry.

“No, no,” Orihime assures her with a shaky smile. It occurs to her that the night could have gone so much worse than it has. Jerk or not, Ulquiorra did not have to keep her safe. She tells Tatsuki that she slept somewhere safe, that she is crying because she is glad to be home.  Tatsuki is dubious, but Orihime insists that all is well.

“Do you remember anything from last night?” Tatsuki asks as they sit down to dinner. Orihime shakes her head. The other girl prods the top of her head gently, where the bump is. Orihime winces. “Well, at least it wasn’t a concussion. We were at the party, remember? And you shotgunned a drink.”

Orihime remembers this much. The party had been too loud and there were too many people, so the room had been sweltering. A tray of drinks had been sitting on the table. She’d grabbed a shot glass of something that looked like tea. She chugged the whole thing in one go because she had been so warm.

“It was Bacardi 151! I can’t believe you just tossed it back. You never even drink. That’s 75% alcohol!” Tatsuki looks awed. “Good thing we were with you then. You dropped your purse, so you bent down to pick it up, but when you stood up, you bashed your head pretty hard on the table and knocked yourself out. Good thing Ichigo caught you! Uryuu had to check to make sure you didn’t give yourself a concussion. But that idiot Kurosaki swore he put you in the car. He carried you out himself. I should have checked to make sure he did, I was busy making our excuses to the hosts.”

Normally, Orihime would blush at the thought of her crush carrying her in his arms. She wonders why today she is just irritated. “I think he put me in a different car,” she sighed, stabbing at the carrots with a fork as she remembered Ulquiorra’s accusation. Biting into the vegetable with a loud crunch, she notices Tatsuki staring at her. “It’s okay, it was an honest mistake. I’m safe and sound. Nothing happened.”

“Where did you end up sleeping, then?” Tatsuki asks. Orihime considers telling her the truth, but she and Ichigo have been itching to beat Ulquiorra up since that first day. Hotheaded Ichigo, especially, would love an excuse to hurt him. Her mind wanders to the white house on a hill, and the dark-haired prince locked within. Her heart aches. He must be so lonely.

“Ah, just the house of a classmate. It was lucky that Ichigo put me in my classmate’s car by mistake. I couldn’t call because my phone died,” she says weakly. Tatsuki stares at her for a long moment, and Orihime tries not to squirm. She is a terrible liar, but technically, she isn’t lying. She is thankful that her next class with _him_ is on early Wednesday morning, three whole days away. She should regain her composure by then.

 

* * *

Wednesday morning. Orihime arrives on time. On her regular seat, there is a sealed envelope, unsigned. She opens it to find her hair clips.

 “What is it?” Tatsuki asks from the row behind her. “Why is your face so red?”

 “I thought I had lost something, and it was returned to me,” Orihime replies, grinning in spite of herself. Ulquiorra is slumped over in the corner, his face buried in a textbook. She cannot help but watch him for the rest of the class.

At the end of it, when she walks over to thank him, he leaves without meeting her eyes.

 

Her next class with him is on Friday.  It is raining, and Orihime is running. She folds up her umbrella even before she gets to the entryway of her college building, getting slightly soaked in the process. She arrives in the classroom thirty minutes early, and notes that Ulquiorra hasn’t arrived yet. He is usually the first one in, so she is happy to get there first. She pulls out her notebook, ripping out the sketch of him sleeping, and folds it, slipping it on his chair. Then she darts over to her seat, taking out her customary blueberry muffin for breakfast. 

He arrives precisely at fifteen minutes before class starts, and spots her. She gives him a jaunty little wave and notes how his green eyes narrow over the medical mask. Then he notices the folded sheet. His whole body goes still when he looks at it, and when his eyes meet hers again, she can tell that he is uncomfortable.

Tatsuki enters the classroom right then, out of breath from her dash across the campus. “Hime, you left so early today! What was the rush?”

The moment is broken. He retreats back behind the Economics of Scale, Third Edition. He makes his exit right when the professor dismisses the class, and Orihime watches his retreat with some disappointment.

When she grabs her umbrella from the umbrella stand, there is a folded paper with a phone number on it. She texts him immediately. “ _Did you like my present? This is my number- Orihime._ ” 

The reply comes in seconds. “ _Stop stalking me, woman. I will not hesitate to involve the authorities._ ”

“ _Well, I’ll have to tell them about how you abducted me and… OMG, I just realized, did you take off my clothes?_ ” She stops in her tracks, horrified at the thought.

“ _I am not a pervert, nor did I enjoy watching you empty the contents of your stomach onto your clothing and my bathroom. There is nothing attractive about that, or you, for that matter. Rest assured, your virtue is intact. I will send you a bill for the dry cleaning of all the beddings that you touched._ ” The answer is so very much like him. Orihime is too amused to be offended.

 

She texts him all weekend. He asks her to delete his number on Sunday. She refuses, enjoying this little game they have between them.

Her sketchpad fills with studies of his hands, and his feet. They are etched into her memory, she doesn’t need references. She commits to canvas an image of him, sleeping, careful not to draw his face. Tatsuki asks who he is, and Orihime cannot tell her. She wants to keep that image to herself for now.

 

Monday comes. She is having lunch with Tatsuki and Ichigo at the quad canteen when she spots him, charging across the quad towards them with annoyance in his eyes. “What does the bastard want now?” Ichigo mutters, getting to his feet. She is secretly thrilled that he wants to defend her. He is such a protector, after all. But she knows it isn’t good for them to butt heads on campus.

“It’s okay!” Orihime says hastily, scampering off to meet Ulquiorra halfway before any trouble can start. “We’ve got a class together, so it must be about that.” 

He hands a receipt to her, as promised. _One comforter, one sheet set, four pillowcases, two towels, one bath mat_. Grudgingly, she parts with her hard-earned money, pressing the bills into his hand. He pockets it, immediately. Before she can flounce away, he grabs her wrist. “Your phone, too.”

“What?” Orihime scowls at him. “I can’t give you my phone.”

“Our business is concluded. You no longer need to have my phone number. Delete it right now.” He waits until she does, in front of him. 

“Anything else?” she snaps. Ulquiorra studies her for a long moment, and she resents it, feeling like he can see past all her defenses.

“No,” he says, walking away. It annoys her to see him take out a small bottle of hand sanitizer from his pocket, pull of his gloves, and clean off all traces of her.

“Why did you take my makeup off? You even braided my hair,” she calls after him, wanting to ruffle his feathers.

“Because you would have dirtied the beddings even more,” he retorts, green eyes flashing over his shoulder. “And your hair is too…,” his gaze rakes over her face, his voice trailing off. At this moment, she wants to pull that silly mask off his mouth. Instead, she walks away before he can finish, infuriated by his rudeness. Maybe she should let Ichigo and Tatsuki beat him up, she thinks, but she knows it wouldn’t be a fair fight.

 

On Wednesday there is yet another envelope on her table. She quirks an eyebrow over her shoulder at him. Her phone buzzes. “ _Your change_ ,” the text message says, from the unknown number. She is amused, in spite of herself, but does not save his number.

A week passes, and then another. Orihime is getting better at the “ **Pretend Ulquiorra Doesn’t Exist** ” game. All is well in her world, she thinks, even if her art reflects long lean fingers combing through strands of fiery hair, and deep green eyes that can see through her soul.

Ichigo meets up with her for an early afternoon coffee on Tuesday. She is blindsided by his announcement that he may have met the love of his life at a bar brawl, of all places. Some girl named Rukia defended him against some drunks with a well-thrown bottle of wine. He is animated, laughing way more than she has ever seen him before. It hurts; not in a sharp way, but in the sadness of knowing that an inevitability has come to pass. She has had a crush on him for four years now, after all. Even Tatsuki knows this.  

She decides to skip class on Wednesday, to spend the day immersed in her art, and comes up blank. She stares at the canvas for hours, willing something, anything to come out. Orihime cannot understand why she isn’t feeling anything more than a vague sadness at the waste of her time. At noon her phone buzzes. It is a message from Ulquiorra. “ _I see you are deciding to waste your education. You can do us all a favor and drop out. Perhaps a career at the local fast food chain would be more to your liking._ ”

He reminds her of a cantankerous old man. The message has her bursting into laughter, of all things. She really cannot take him seriously now. She fires back a message. “ _I see you missed me._ ”

There is a long pause before her phone vibrates again. “ _Don’t forget your medication. You’re hallucinating again._ ”

She giggles as she types out her response. “ _Didn’t know you cared. But seriously, can I borrow your notes from today’s lecture?_ ” She stares at the message for a moment before pressing send.

“ _Why should I have to lend you my notes? I went to class and you didn’t. If you are absent because of illness, then I definitely do not want you near any of my notes,_ ” the message read. She sighs. Tatsuki could probably lend her notes, but Tatsuki’s note-taking skills leave a lot to be desired.  

Her phone beeps again. “ _But I can give you photocopies. Once._ ” Orihime hugs her phone to her chest, a grin splitting her face. Then she stops. Why is she so giddy over a text from Ulquiorra, who so obviously hates her? Another text arrives. “ _I’ll drop it off. Where do you live?_ ” A smile spreads across her face again. Maybe he doesn’t hate her as much as he claims to.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

III.

 

On Friday they are tasked to form a study group for a presentation, three people max. Tatsuki is mystified when Orihime waves to Ulquiorra, who rolls his eyes and nods. 

“What are you doing?” she hisses at Orihime.

“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Orihime whispers back.

“But he’s an asshole,” Tatsuki mutters, radiating hostility as Ulquiorra moves closer to the two of them. He doesn’t say a word of greeting to either of them, choosing instead to park behind his textbook and cough mask. He does, however, take his share of the workload without any complaint. They agree to meet on the next two Saturdays at the library to finalize their report. 

Orihime finds herself waking up early to prep for the meeting. She does her hair and makeup, but anxiously hopes she doesn’t look like she is trying too hard. Tatsuki is in the shower when she rushes off ahead, excited to see her cranky classmate.

He is waiting in the library, already halfway through the assigned reading. Orihime studies him from the doorway, wondering why her heart rate just went up at the sight of him. As if he can feel the weight of her gaze, he looks up and sees her. And- miracle of miracles!- he pulls down the mask covering his nose and lips. “What are you doing?” he mouths at her from across the room. 

She slides into the seat next to him, their shoulders almost touching. It earns her a glare from him, but he does not move away. They bicker in hushed tones, but Orihime is inwardly giggling. When Tatsuki joins them, he covers himself up again and retreats into silence. He only deigns to address Orihime directly, and so Tatsuki does the same. The tension in the air is thick but they manage to get most of their work done.

Tatsuki’s phone beeps. “Oh, it’s Ichigo. He wants us to meet his new girlfriend. They’re at the coffee shop on the quad,” the dark-haired girl says, giving Orihime a concerned look. “Are you going to be okay?”

Orihime forces a smile on her face. “Of course. I’m looking forward to meeting her too!” She ignores the questioning look Ulquiorra sends her, focusing on packing her things away.

He follows them as they head out. “Who is Ichigo?” he asks her in an undertone.

She twists a lock of her hair nervously. “Our friend. You’ve seen him with us before, he has bright orange hair. He actually put me in your car by mistake, that night. It was an honest mistake, though.” She does not like the look he gives her;  it makes her feel defenceless and that is the last thing she needs right now.

“I thought he was your boyfriend,” he admits quietly. She glances up at him sharply, curls bouncing. Avoiding her eyes, he walks ahead to Tatsuki. “I will come along with you,” he announces to her. “You may ride my car. I have some business at the coffee shop.”

He ignores the scathing remark Tatsuki makes, and proceeds calmly to the car. Orihime is confused by this, but she can only give Tatsuki a weak smile. The ride to the cafe is silent and tense, so she hits the radio button. Death metal fills the car, a male vocalist singing roughly in gibberish, so loudly she can feel her hair vibrating to the bass. Quickly, he switches it off.  “What are you doing in someone else’s car?” he scolds. Chastened, she sinks back into the seat. She can see packages of disinfectant wipes in the cup holders. This must be torture for him, having other people in his space.

The parking lot is mostly empty, because it is a Saturday. The girls exit the car themselves; it goes without saying that Ulquiorra is no gentleman. Orihime’s hands are cold. Tatsuki links arms with her, marching them forward without thanking him.

Orihime looks behind her, to see Ulquiorra’s eyebrows knit. Before she can say anything, Tatsuki drags her off. Ichigo is seated at a table for four, with a short, dark-haired girl with the most intense purple eyes Orihime has ever seen. He is totally attuned to her, though the girl turns in their direction as soon as they come in. Orihime cannot blame him for being attracted to her. She is lovely. In the corner of her eye, she sees Ulquiorra sit at a table, unfolding his laptop. His presence is oddly comforting.

“Tatsuki, Orihime,” Ichigo calls, waving them over. “This is Rukia.”

Even her hands are tiny, she thinks as she shakes the other girl’s hand. Rukia’s grip is surprisingly firm. “Hi!” They greet her, taking their seats. Ichigo drapes his arm around the back of Rukia’s chair casually. This show of possessiveness is not lost on Orihime or Tatsuki. Neither is the icy glare Rukia sends him, until he withdraws his arm. Tatsuki bursts into laughter. “I like her!” she chortles.

Orihime is quiet. Now she can see how perfectly they are suited. Rukia is the kind of girl who would stand toe-to-toe with Ichigo, and their relationship would be interesting and balanced. If she had ended up with him, he would just spend all his time taking care of her. The thought is both saddening and freeing.

Tatsuki has to run to her part-time job, so she leaves early. The new couple also stand to leave for a study group. Apparently they are in the same major. Orihime waves them off with an enthusiastic smile, but her energy deserts her as soon as they are out of sight. She bows her head, almost to the table. It is difficult to breathe. This obsession with Ichigo that filled her life so much is now draining out of her, leaving an empty space, and it is sucking out all the air in her system. She fights for the next breath, and the next. It seems now, that she liked the idea of loving Ichigo, more than the reality of him. 

A paper bag lands in her lap. She looks up, surprised, to see an irritated-looking Ulquiorra standing beside her table, looking out the window. His mask is in place, but his eyes are shooting daggers at whatever has caught his attention outside. She unfolds the top of her bag and finds a blueberry muffin, her favourite breakfast. Astonished, she looks back up at him. The tips of his ears are a bright red, but he is rapidly making his way to the door. By now, the sun has set, and the winds are cold.

She chases after him, catching him as he gets to the car. Unfortunately, she is not in the best of shape, so she is wheezing by the time she grabs his sleeve. He yanks his arm out of her grasp. “Do not make anything out of it. I had to purchase something to be able to occupy a table. But I do not trust the food there. Who knows what kind of bacteria is in their food? You seem to eat a lot of those, so you may have built up a resistance to the microbes,” he says hurriedly, his words tumbling over each other in his haste. “I hate seeing food go to waste, even bad food.”   

Normally she would find it hilarious, how defensive he is being. But not right now, not when she is still reeling from Ichigo’s revelation, not when she is so down. The sheer, uncalled-for meanness is the final straw.  So she does not fight it when her eyes fill, and the sobs escape. Deep, body-wracking sobs fill Orihime, and all she can do is press her knuckles to her eyes. She hates that Ulquiorra is seeing her weakness and her shame.

Of course, just on cue, it starts to rain. Not a light mist, but a heavy downpour that has fat raindrops pelting hard enough to hurt her. He grabs her wrist and shoves her into the passenger seat of his car, slamming the door. Moments later, he joins her in the driver’s seat. It is raining so heavily that there is zero visibility in the windshield. This strangely intimate space they both occupy makes Orihime nervous, but she still cannot stop the tears from leaking out her eyes. With a loud sigh, he shoves a box of tissues in her direction, careful not to touch her.

She hiccups and yanks out three at once, blotting the tears from her eyes. Her mascara must be bleeding down her cheeks, but she doesn’t care anymore. He sighs and points to a clear plastic bag, presumably for her to throw her used tissues in. “So your crush has a girlfriend.” he scoffs, adding insult to injury. “Why the hell would you waste your time on that carrot-headed troglodyte?”

Orihime finds his wince satisfying when she blows her nose, loudly. And when she drops the crumpled-up tissue on the dashboard deliberately, he grabs another clean tissue and sweeps it into the bag, glaring at her.

She stares at his hands. “Are you obsessive-compulsive, Ulquiorra?” she asks quietly in a thick voice.

He doesn’t answer.

“I cannot imagine what that is like, but it must be similar to loving someone. You can’t help it. You have to do what you do, and you have no control over your emotions. The world has unseen rules that make you behave the way you do, to feel this way about the one you love,” her voice cracks. “And sometimes, even if it hurts, even if you know that there will be an inevitable end, even if you know they don’t feel the same way, you still find yourself acting in a manner that you know will eventually lead to pain. You don’t have a choice. You just do what you do because your heart tells you to.”

He tugs a glove off his hand, and hovers it over hers. She can see how it trembles, and how much it is taking for him to make this simple human contact. His fingertips finally graze her skin, and she watches his eyes close, as if he is forcing himself. She lets out a breath that she did not know she was holding. Her skin burns from where he touches her so gently. She wonders if that is why he wears gloves all the time.

“I do not like this feeling,” he says through gritted teeth. “Of other people. People are disgusting, and messy, and complicated. What is the point of a heart, if it will cause you pain? Heart… as if it were something one could hold in the palm of your hand.” He pulls his fingers away, grabbing a wet-wipe and scrubbing at his fingers in precise motions.

Orihime studies the cast of his profile against the darkness outside, the ridge of his forehead, and the outline of his jaw. “Why are you so nice to me?” she whispers. “You didn’t have to help me when you found me that night. You didn’t even have to get me out of the rain.”

His discomfort is palpable in the small, intimate space. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe you’re really a nice person?” she offers, trying to meet his gaze. He avoids her, glaring out the window.

“Do you honestly think that I would do this for anyone?” Ulquiorra pulls the glove back on, slipping it on the steering wheel. Orihime wishes she could see past his mask, but his eyes are cold.

A ball of heat in her chest is unfurling at his words. “Then…,” she begins, but he cuts her off.

“Then, what?” he snaps, losing his temper. “I told you I don’t know. I don’t know why no matter how much I scrub and clean my room, your damned scent won’t go away. I don’t know why I wake up early to go to class so I can see you come in, not that I want to. I don’t know why it hurts here,” he thumps his chest, “when I see you around that… that… idiot. I don’t know why when I enter a room I automatically look for you.” Ulquiorra’s chest is heaving from his speech. He pounds the steering wheel with his fist in frustration. “And you are crying because someone who is blind did not see you.”

Orihime is stunned. “I was crying,” she tells him, trying to quell the trembling in her hands, “because I realized I did not love him after all. And because I was ashamed of my stupidity. I should have noticed you sooner. It took a strange turn of events for me to end up in your bed. I’m sorry, Ulquiorra.”

His eyes meet hers, wary and watchful. “I will not be your rebound. You have terrible taste in men.” Direct as always. Orihime laughs, covering her mouth with her hands. While she is giggling, he leans forward and kisses her through his mask and through her hand, catching her off-guard. Then he pulls her hand out of the way, and tugs his mask down to kiss her properly. His lips are warm and soft and firm, nibbling at her very carefully.

The rain falls around them, but in the car, Orihime feels like she is on fire. She kisses him back shyly. She can feel him trembling as much as she is, and it warms her heart. “Are you afraid, woman?” he murmurs against her lips.

She smiles. “No, I’m not.”

  
-End-


	4. Epilogue

One week in, and Ulquiorra wonders what madness caused him to fall in love with such an unholy mess of a woman. She likes walking around barefoot outdoors, eating all sorts of random concoctions, and worst of all, she is a TOUCHER.

She touches strange dogs, weird textures, and other people’s hair. Disgusting, is what it is. Orihime tries to touch him as well, but he will have none of that. Except the kisses. The kisses are his weakness. She has been to his innermost sanctum, the soothing white cavern that is his room, and yet, now, he is unwilling to have her contaminate it even more. Memories and her scent already haunt him at home.

Case in point: right now, she is sitting on the grass directly, her feet bare, nails painted in clashing shades of orange and purple and gold, while nibbling on an apple that she fished out of her bag. The most horrifying part of it was that the apple was transported, uncovered, in her bag, touching all her other dirty things. He waves her away when she holds it out to him like the biblical Eve. If Adam had cared about hygiene, the world would be a better place, he thinks sourly. Wait a minute. They were naked. Ulquiorra suppresses a delicate shudder.

“Please, woman. Get off the ground. There are all sorts of bacteria there,” he sighs, enchanted by the laugh that comes tinkling out of her at his words. He is a helpless captive to her smile, though he would never admit it.

“But the bacteria in dirt builds up your immune system,” she tells him with a wink, sinking her teeth into the apple. “And you need to boost your immune system because if you don’t, you’ll be prone to all sorts of things.”

He is dangerously close to sulking, standing as he is in the shade right now.  His mask is stifling in the sun, but there are all sorts of pollen floating in the air and he does not want to risk getting allergies. “I shall head home,” he tells her stiffly, spinning around on his heel.

“Wait,” she giggles, hastily packing her things and chasing after him. “Ulquiorra, are you angry? Today was supposed to be our date. I thought we were going to spend the whole day together.” She matches his long strides, her giant skirt fluttering.

He stops and stares at her for a long moment. Fishing out an antibacterial wipe, Orihime disinfects her hands briskly, and then slips her fingers into his. This unfamiliar heat in his chest… Is it from standing too long in the sun? He gazes up at the cloudless sky, staring accusingly at the sun. That might explain the burning of his cheeks as well.

“Come on, Ulquiorra,” Orihime whispers mischievously. “Let’s have sex.”

Horrified, he detaches his hand from her with a shudder and a scowl. Sex is body fluids mingling and bacteria sharing and all sorts of messy things, how can she even suggest this? He sprints away from her, her laughter echoing in his ears.  “I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” she calls after him, clutching her midsection because she is laughing so hard.

His steps slow. Is she making fun of him, now? This woman… She has never taken him seriously, in the three or so years that he has known her.

Her hair is blazing, a fire that needs to be put out. Sometimes he gets the urge to dump water on it again, like that first night when he had found her passed out in his car. “I am breaking up with you,” he tells her, giving her his best glare. “After I drive you home.”

Orihime smiles, completely unconcerned. “Okay.”

“And I won’t lend you my notes anymore if you decide to skip class.” He opens the passenger door and waits for her to get settled in, though he makes a mental note to disinfect the seat. She has been sitting on the ground, after all. Crossing over to the driver’s seat, he buckles himself in.

“That’s fine,” she replies, leaning back with a grin. “I’ll be forced to do my own studying, which I really should do anyway.”  This woman! She is too cavalier about this whole relationship. He is glad for the mask that obscures his frown.

“Fine,” he mutters, focusing on the task of starting the car. Her eyes are on him the entire time, a secret smirk on her face that irritates him. The drive is made in silence- well, aside from her off-key humming- and her dorm is only minutes away.

“Tatsuki’s not home tonight,” Orihime announces as he parks in front of her building. “She has a group-study session at Ichigo’s.” Those names mean nothing to him. Did she not hear him earlier?

“I am breaking up with you,” he repeats again, looking out the window.

“Sure, sure. Do you want to borrow my disinfectant spray for the passenger seat?” she asks, getting out of the car. “I’m sure you’re dying to wipe me off the car.” Sighing, he follows her out the door and up the stairs, resenting every step. He has still not slept over; their relationship is too new that he cannot fathom letting his guard down at a place occupied by TWO people, and God knows how many guests.

As she unlocks the door and kicks off her shoes, narrowly missing his head, Ulquiorra has to take a moment. Is he really going to do this? She is chattering like a three-year-old on caffeine and sugar. To his consternation, she goes to the bathroom and takes a swig of mouthwash, chugging directly from the bottle. How unsanitary. He winces, but supposes that mouthwash is a disinfectant of sorts. She whirls around the apartment, still swirling the blue liquid in her mouth, drops running down her chin.

At one point, she spits everything down the kitchen sink, her eyes red from the sting of the mint. Ulquiorra wordlessly hands her a paper towel to wipe her chin.

“Okay, Ulquiorra, get your mask off,” she orders, standing in front of him. “If you’re going to break up with me, I should at least get a kiss for my troubles.”

“No, thanks,” he says flatly. If he kissed her now all his resolve would crumble.

“Kiss meeee,” she demands, puckering up. She is too cute, he thinks, fighting the urge to obey her. If he gives in now, she will take everything.

Sidestepping her neatly, he heads to the door. “I’m not going to kiss you,” he states, ignoring the entreaty in her eyes. She backs him up, step-for-step, until his back is against the green painted wood.

“Are you breaking up with me, then?” Her voice drops. Her eyes are open and vulnerable now. Ulquiorra is gratified to see the faintest trace of anxiety in them, though he feels guilty for causing it.

His gloved hands rise to cradle her face, careful not to touch her hair. Human hair is filthy with germs, after all, but he has the fanciful thought that hers might burn him. Idly he traces her lips with his fingertips, watching in fascination as they part slightly, and her glorious eyes slide to half-mast. She may be a toucher, he thinks, but she loves to be touched. He traces the straight bridge of her nose, stroking the soft fringe of her eyelashes, and she blooms like a flower under his hands.

The crazy need to take his gloves off and touch her shocks him from the trance-like state he was in. She is so close, that he can feel her breath through his mask.

“Ulquiorra?” Ah, she had asked him a question.

“No,” he tells her, fighting the urge to run away and change gloves immediately. Instead, he presses the pad of his thumbs against her lips, a silent apology for his lack of a kiss. Her eyes are now fully closed, and he is happy for the reprieve from her searching gaze. She kisses his thumbs, then, a smile curving the corner of her mouth.

“I’m glad,” she says, suddenly serious. Cautiously, she reaches up and unhooks his mask. She knows that if he truly doesn’t want to kiss her, he’d have pushed her away by now. He braces himself for her onslaught, but she merely looks sad. “I just want to see your face when I’m with you, you know?”

Oh. Ulquiorra supposes that this is a thing people do when they are dating. “Only when we’re alone,” he offers gruffly. “And the immediate vicinity is reasonably clean.”

She narrows her eyes, and counters, “When we are indoors and alone.”

“That’s even worse. Trapped air is full of --” he begins, but the glint in her eye gives him pause. “Okay.” Then her mouth is on his, and he cannot help kiss her back, tasting the burn of the mouthwash on his lips and tongue. Why does he even bother to put up a fight? He was lost from the day she bumped into him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, Happy birthday to me (and so, you guys get a new chapter) Cheers!


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